Will He Forgive?

Clasped in another's arms, and forced to smile—

To lip, to laugh, whilst, distant many a mile,He lies under the sod. O God!

My heart is buried with him; only the husk, the shell,This man holds. And yet my mother says: 'It is well—Thou art rich, and should'st rejoice in my choice.'

Compared with this man he was poor, though glorious of soul and face;But a crooked back and mind are accounted small disgrace—To have a shrunken purse is worse.

So, lapped in the splendours of state,I live with a man that I hate—Hating myself. Yet I live,And wonder whether he knowsUnder the sunshine and snows,And whether he will forgive.